


it's not living (if it's not with you)

by explosivesky



Category: RWBY
Genre: F/F, just fluff, pop punk slash punk rock au, they're all in bands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-08 20:02:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16435862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/explosivesky/pseuds/explosivesky
Summary: Blake Belladonna looks exactly like the music she plays: heavy beats and low bass lines and a voice that sounds like a caution sign. Yang rolls the ball of her tongue piercing against the roof of her mouth, watches Blake sing with her lips against the microphone, a calling, a turning point. Blake falls into her arms with a laugh; Yang's more pop-punk but now she's getting into love.I figured out what I believe in, Yang says.Music? Blake asks.You.





	it's not living (if it's not with you)

**Author's Note:**

> ray @technicallyblakebelladonna on tumblr challenged me to write a short fic for once in my life, between 10-12k words. i fuckin DID it. written entirely to the 1975

It’s something simple, inconsequential. They meet at a festival, headlining the main stage on different days. Yang’s band plays on Friday. Blake’s is Saturday. There isn’t much else to do aside from drink and watch the other artists perform; it’s a bad medley, if she’s being honest.

Friday night is loud, frantic, pulsing. The beats synthesize like something born in a lab. Weiss’s high notes on the keys and Nora’s steady drumline combine into the reminiscence of a time none of them were alive for. It’s like if the 80’s aesthetic were drenched in apathetic millennial existentialism, Pyrrha always says with a grin; and, well, the lesbians love it.

Yang sings; most of the crowd follows her. She can only see as far as directly in front of the stage when the lights are on. The ball of her tongue piercing presses against the roof of her mouth. There’s only one face she recognizes. 

Blake Belladonna is off to the side with her band’s drummer, singing along. They’re both bobbing their heads, pausing to talk and laugh occasionally. They must’ve used their passes for VIP access. Yang’s nerves flare underneath her skin, opening, touch-starved. Blake stares directly at her with her lips curled. She knows every single word to every single song, though she sometimes seems distracted by Yang’s fingers on her guitar.

She stays until the end. The lights dim and drop; Yang hands a stagehand her instrument, starts unwiring herself. The crowd thunders outside, cheering. Yang thinks of Blake’s mouth shaping into an _o,_ whistling.

“What’s the rush?” Weiss asks, tightening her ponytail, hand slipping down to her industrial. 

“Hot date,” Nora supplies with a wink, ripping off her sweatband. 

“Blake Belladonna,” Yang says shortly, ducking behind a stagetech and heading for the door.

The crowd’s somewhat dispersed, idling. The patches of dirt stick out against the grass, littered with trash. Yang glances around the pit. Blake is gone. 

\--

Yang’s only a little drunk by Saturday night. Weiss a bit more so, and Ruby not at all. They’re following a man with a shirt that says _EVENT STAFF_ around the perimeter of the main stage.

“She’s on in ten,” Ruby says, checking her phone for the time. “Nice of her to watch us yesterday.” 

“She knew our songs,” Yang says distractedly, following their security escort through a roped-off area of the grass. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”

“I want to get a good look at her,” Weiss says, fiddling with her piercing again. “What if _I’m_ her type?”

Yang tosses an amused glance back, eyes her torn-up black tights, her high boots, her loose, long black dress, her necklace. “You aren’t.” 

“How do you know?” 

“Because I’m her type.” 

Weiss harrumphs under her breath. “You’re conceited,” she says, slipping through the front gate to the VIP area. “That’s what you are.” 

“Maybe.” Yang looks at the others in the pit with them; a few people she recognizes by face only, from bands she can’t name. “You thought _I_ was your type for awhile.” 

“I was new at this,” Weiss says offhandedly. “You’re hot and gay. Unfortunately, your personality--” 

Yang laughs, leaning against the bars as the lights dim. “Right.” 

\--

Blake Belladonna looks exactly like the music she plays: heavy beats and low bass lines and a voice that sounds like a _caution_ sign. Her black hair’s up in a ponytail, side shave visible on the right, her ripped jeans disappearing into Doc Martens. Her piercings are similar to Weiss’s; there’s the industrial bar, two or three on her lobes, an orbital, a helix. Her shirt’s white, half-tucked into her jeans, with the word _BOYS_ on it framed by the black outline of two hands raising the middle finger. 

“Ugh,” Weiss says boredly from behind her. “You _are_ her type.”

\--

Blake stumbles off stage, laughing with her band. The lead guitarist, a guy whose name Yang thinks is Sun, has his arm around her. She stops when she sees Yang standing there, shoves him off of her. Sun’s too wired up, following their keyboardist off into the back, barely noticing Blake isn’t with them.

Blake’s smaller in-person than Yang’d thought she’d be, despite her boots - they have a higher, thicker heel than Yang’s do, giving her an extra inch or two. She’s probably about five-six or seven compared to Yang’s five-nine. She’s beautiful, magnetizing. She entirely deserves the screaming crowd beckoning her back to stage. 

“Hey,” Yang greets.

“Hi,” Blake says, tongue darting across her upper lip. “You’re Yang. Yang Xiao Long. From _Huntress._ ” 

“You’re Blake. Blake Belladonna. From _White Fang._ ” 

She grins. She’s still covered in a thin sheen of sweat from the show but she isn’t self-conscious about it. “Did you _actually_ know that, or did you hear us introduce ourselves?” 

“I saw you at our show yesterday.” Yang takes a step closer, hands tucked casually in her pockets. “I came out tonight to hear you play.” 

“Is that right,” Blake says, not like a question. “Just to hear us play?” 

“Not ‘us’,” Yang says. “You.” 

Blake raises an eyebrow, tongues her lip piercing. Her eyes drop interestedly to the full length of Yang’s tattoo, a dragon winding all the way up her arm before disappearing into her muscle tee, black with a large white _XXX_ written across the center. The stage crew move around them, busy and unbothered. They’re both too contained and nothing.

“I love your music,” Blake says after a pause.

“I know,” Yang answers, hinting to arrogance. “That’s why I’m here.” 

Blake’s smile quirks again. “Oh,” she says, understanding the insinuation. “ _That’s_ why you’re here.”

Yang shrugs, steps even closer. “I’m your type.” 

“You are,” Blake agrees. She slips a finger through Yang’s belt loop, tugs her in slightly, examining her subtly, appreciatively as she does so. She leans up on her toes, lips hovering above Yang’s, and murmurs, “But I’m not that easy.” 

Yang’s mouth curls aloofly, smirk almost detached. There’s a trap here, somewhere. There’s a path to undress. The challenge says _kiss me anyway, it’s what I want._ But she’s learned a few of her own lessons.

“Oh, I didn’t think you were,” she says. “I just thought it was about time we got acquainted.”

She wraps her fingers around Blake’s wrist, gently loosens her grip, lets their arms drop separately. Blake only stills, catalogues her movements, motions. They’re both so contradictory to their words.

“I’ll see you around, Belladonna,” Yang says lightly, sirens of an undertone. Blake senses the storm. 

“Until the next one,” she answers, watching her leave. 

\--

“You didn’t even _kiss_ her,” Weiss drawls on the bus as she cracks open a beer. “Have you lost your touch?” 

Yang rolls her eyes, boots kicked up on the arm of the sofa. “I _purposely_ didn’t kiss her, princess.” 

“Semantics,” Weiss waves away. Pyrrha chuckles harmlessly from where she’s sitting on the opposite couch.

“Look,” Yang says, scrolling through twitter aimlessly, “just because _you_ aren’t getting laid doesn’t mean you need to be bitter that I’m about to be.” 

“Oh, _ouch_ ,” Ruby calls, snickering all the way from the front seat. Weiss shoots her a dirty look, harrumphing. 

“Easy for _you_ to laugh at,” Weiss says. “You don’t even _like_ sex.” 

Yang doesn’t have to see her face to know the expression she’s pulling. “It’s not my thing,” Ruby says, indifference evident. 

“Whatever.” Weiss tosses her hair over her shoulder, tucking it behind her ear. “I could get laid if I wantedto.” 

“Oh, yeah?” Yang asks, feet thumping against the floor as she lowers them. “Prove it.” 

She stares Weiss down, realizing after she possibly should’ve thought this through; Weiss never backs away from a challenge, like it’s composed of hooks that dig in. She rubs a finger over her industrial automatically, cleary thinking, until her eyes narrow, smile spreading sharp. 

She rests her bottle back on the counter, steps around it towards Yang, holds her gaze even as she angles her body towards Pyrrha until the last possible second. Pyrrha looks up at her, surprised without confusion, phone falling to the side. 

It’s almost as if Weiss sizes her up for a moment - takes in her thighs showing through the rips in her jeans, her loose burgundy tank top slit down the sides, her black bra visible underneath - and then she bends over, cups Pyrrha’s face in her hands, and kisses her. 

Yang’s eyes feel too big for her skull, her jaw hanging off hinges; Pyrrha freezes for less time than Yang expects before her hands spread against Weiss’s hips, nudging her closer, and Weiss straddles her lap, fingers brushing through Pyrrha’s undercut above the back of her neck. Yang watches Pyrrha’s mouth open a little too widely, sees how Weiss sinks dangerously low. 

“Are you fucking _serious?_ ” Yang asks bluntly after a solid minute. 

Weiss breaks the kiss, smirks brazenly, and slides off of Pyrrha’s lap in an oddly graceful manner. Pyrrha, to her credit, is more stunned than anything, as if her brain’s barely finished processing the situation. Her lips are smeared red, matching the color of her hair. 

“I can get laid if I want to,” Weiss says again, slowly, and runs a finger around her mouth, wiping away her lipstick. She walks back around the counter and reaches for her beer.

\--

It’s hard to get a moment alone, but they manage. It’s midnight and they’re standing outside a McDonald’s at a rest stop off of highway 10, passing a joint between them. The night’s warm but Yang likes the feeling of the heat sinking into her leather jacket. 

She says, “You and Weiss, huh.” 

Pyrrha exhales, head tilting back. “I suppose so.” 

“You were into it.” 

“I know.” 

Yang presses her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “You’ve been _into it_ before, haven’t you?” 

Pyrrha grins in amusement, still staring at the dark sky. “Yeah,” she admits guiltlessly. “I slept with her a few weeks ago.”

Yang’s eyebrows shoot up. The tip of the joint lights, stutters. Her lungs are too big for the cage they’re contained in. “You _slept_ with her?” 

“Yeah,” she says like it’s nothing, shrugs. “She said I needed to relax, and that it’d been too long since I dumped my ex to count as an excuse any longer.” She pauses, brushes her fingers against her undercut, the short bristles of hair. “She made some good points.” 

The insinuation speaks for itself. “I bet she did.”

“Whatever.” She takes the joint from Yang, brings it to her lips. “Seemed like a good idea, at the time.”

“Doesn’t it always,” Yang says, and laughs after, finally settling against the idea with the smoke. It’s strange; not because they don’t work together, but because they do. “You and _Weiss._ ”

“She’s - you know,” Pyrrha says, glancing towards the bus. “She’s so...hot-headed and stubborn. I think it’s kinda cute.” 

“Well, don’t ask me to sing at the wedding.”

She shoves Yang’s arm, laughing with her. “Shut up.”

\--

It’s a Friday a week later when their tour paths cross. They’re playing separate venues on the same night, but Blake’s show ends an hour after hers. It’s perfect.

Weiss tags along again, this time with her arm looped through Pyrrha’s, fitting against her side. Pyrrha’s hair is up in a high, messy bun, criss-crossing pattern visible above her neck, eyebrow piercing sharper than the look she gives Weiss when she thinks Yang isn’t watching. Weiss’s dress is grey and falls rippling down her body, barely covers her ass under ragged black tights, wearing haughtiness the same way she’d lined her lips with a dark garnet. Well, what’s the harm in playing parts.

They’re seated upstairs at a private table with bottle service. They only catch the last three songs and the encore, but the encore is Yang’s favorite, anyway, and Weiss and Pyrrha seem content doing shots and snickering behind their hands, leaning in to whisper. Blake looks _good,_ like she always does, with her hair pinned over her left shoulder and white short sleeve button-up untucked from her tight maroon jeans, blending into higher boots than she’d worn previously. She holds the microphone with both hands in between her bass lines. Yang imagines what they’d feel like wrapped around her neck.

“I know that look,” Weiss says from Pyrrha’s lap, smirking arrogantly.

“Admiration,” Yang says shortly.

“Lust,” Weiss mimics in the same tone of voice. 

“Now’s your chance,” Pyrrha says, her arms around Weiss’s waist. “Go corner her in a dressing room or something.” 

Yang slips off the stool, heads for the stairs. “Thanks,” she says dryly, because she’s not about to actually take advice from two girls who got bored and decided they found the other kind of hot.

\--

The bouncer doesn’t recognize her but Blake’s personal bodyguard does, and he gestures her up with a nod. “She’s the first door on the right,” he says, unconcerned, and Yang thanks him with a smile. 

She knocks on the door twice. The wood’s painted black and chipped in a few places, and knob’s tarnished, dull. Blake calls, “Come in,” and Yang doesn’t wait to be told again. There’s nothing to do with hesitation. 

“Hey,” she says, slipping into the room like she belongs there. She kind of does. She belongs wherever Blake is. 

Blake’s toweling off her face but drops it at the sound of Yang’s voice, hair swinging over her shoulder. She stares, mouth slowly unfurling at the corners, the pages of a book. “Hey.” 

“Our show ended earlier,” Yang answers the unspoken question. She leaves her hands in the pockets of her leather jacket. “Thought I’d stop by.” 

Blake’s eyes roam blatantly up and down her body, teeth dragging her bottom lip into her mouth. “Just in the neighborhood?” 

“Yeah, actually.” 

“You look good,” she says bluntly. Her skin is copper-wired, conductive.

Yang half-smirks, a cross between a summon and a calling. “I look even better up-close.” 

Blake grins, extends a hand. The show’s over; she’s running out of things to put on. “Well,” she says, “make your case.” 

Yang slips her fingers past her palm, up her wrist, strokes the inside of it lightly. “How about,” she says instead, “you let me buy you a drink.” 

Blake hums, steps in, her other hand resting against the outside of Yang’s jacket. “Why?” 

“Because,” Yang says, voice like the dulcet, low lines of a bass, “you aren’t that easy.”

\--

Weiss isn’t drunk. “I’m not drunk,” she tells Pyrrha, trying desperately to hide her slur. 

“Sure, baby,” Pyrrha says mildly, glancing down as her phone lights up with a text. It’s only Nora, asking where they are. Her arms stay loose around Weiss’s waist. “I’ll let you have that.” 

“Maybe _you’re_ drunk,” Weiss says, tilting her neck and looking at her through fluttering eyelashes. 

“Maybe,” Pyrrha agrees seriously, and Weiss breaks and laughs. “That’s what happens when you do five shots in an hour.” 

She wiggles slightly, and Pyrrha spread her legs, allows Weiss to slip back to the floor. She turns and faces her, slides her fingers around the back of Pyrrha’s neck, scratching through the short, soft hair.

“Remember when I thought Yang was my type?” she says, grimacing at the concept. She’s no good with a poker face; it’s endearing when it isn’t inconvenient.

Pyrrha mirrors her oppositely, grinning. “Yes.” 

“I only realized she wasn’t,” Weiss says, “when I realized you were.” 

“That’s cute,” Pyrrha says, lips stretching wider. “Are you propositioning me?” 

Weiss reaches up, brushes her thumb over Pyrrha’s eyebrow, rolls the ball, hand dropping down to her cheek. Pyrrha only watches in amusement and adoration, less hidden than she’d like to be. There’s something about the devil and his girl Friday - no, wait, she’s mixing up her references - but Weiss stands on her toes and drags Pyrrha’s mouth to hers, and the devil’s definitely in there somewhere.

\--

The crowd’s filtered out, hogging the merch table up front. Yang leads her back up the stairs, keeps their fingers linked. Weiss and Pyrrha are making out at the table Yang’d left them at. Yang rolls her eyes; she can’t leave them alone for five minutes, literally. 

Blake laughs. “Oh, _really_?” she says, delighted.

“It’s a recent thing,” Yang explains, passing them up for the bar. “I don’t know. I’m not getting involved.” 

“That’s probably wise.” Blake slips onto a stool, tucks her chin against her palm, elbow on the counter. “Sun and Neptune have a _thing_ like that, but it’s none of my business.” 

“Neptune’s your rhythm guitarist, right?” 

“Yeah.” Blake untangles their fingers, rests her now-free hand against Yang’s knee. “I’ll have a whiskey sour,” she says to the bartender. 

“Tequila sunrise,” Yang says. 

“So is this your plan?” Blake asks, stretching out a boot to rest on the rung of Yang’s stool. “Get me drunk and seduce me?” 

Yang snickers a little breathlessly, caught off-guard. “No,” she says. “I’m just here to talk.” 

“Oh, _really,_ ” Blake says again, leaning closer to her, eyes narrowing playfully. “So you’ve got an end goal.” 

“Don’t you?” 

“Well, sure,” Blake says, takes her drink with a smile and lifts it to her lips. “I think they’re two sides of the same coin.” 

“Working for it, and making me work for it?” Yang guesses wryly, the flirtatious arch of her eyebrow. She wraps her mouth around her straw. Blake’s gaze drops interestedly. 

“You did your tongue?” she breathes out, letting her arm fall to the wood. “Oh, that’s hot.” 

“ _Talk,_ Belladonna,” Yang enunciates, picking up her jaw. 

\--

Yang gets her way; Blake keeps her attention held to passive things for the most part. There’s the tour, that’s one. The way all roads feel endless and none of them lead home, if home ever existed to begin with. There’s their influences, inspirations. Yang’s mom abandoned her, and it’s something she’ll never sing about. Blake’s parents raised her as an activist; music’s her kind of rebellion. 

“That’s what drew me to punk rock,” she’s saying. Her glass is empty. “Fuck it all, really, but believein _something_.” 

Yang smiles genuinely; her words are too passionate to disregard. “What if I don’t know what I believe yet?” 

Blake flutters her eyelashes, mouth like a cathedral. “I could probably help you with that,” she purrs, trails her index finger along the side of Yang’s hand, but cracks and laughs. She’s trying to be too many things at once. 

“It was a good attempt,” Yang says teasingly. 

Blake rolls her eyes with a grin, but moves on. “Besides,” she says, “you believe in music, don’t you?” 

“Yeah,” Yang says, mildly surprised. “Yeah, I guess I do.” 

\--

Weiss stumbles over twenty minutes later, leans her chin on Yang’s shoulder with a _harrumph._ “Oh, it’s you,” she says somewhat rudely to Blake, Pyrrha’s hands settling on her waist. “You know, Yang hasn’t kissed you yet.” 

“I’m aware,” Blake says, holding back a laugh. Yang only downs the rest of her drink.

“It means she _likes_ you,” Weiss reveals devilishly, straightening up. “Otherwise she would’ve just _done_ it.” 

“Is that so,” Blake says, tongue rolling her lip piercing thoughtfully, throwing Yang a look. 

“Yeah,” Yang says, shrugging. 

“Huh.” 

“Yep.” 

“Wow.”

“Shut up,” Weiss interrupts crossly, Pyrrha laughing behind her. “Just fuck already.” 

“No,” Yang says. “Get out of here.” 

Pyrrha bends down, whispers something against the shell of Weiss’s ear, who raises a single eyebrow carefully and curls up the corner of her lip. “Okay,” Weiss says serenely (drunkenly). “We’re leaving. Nice meeting you, Blake. Sorry that you’re doomed or whatever.” 

“Doomed?” Blake repeats, her straight face finally breaking; somehow she finds Weiss funny rather than annoying. 

“Oh, please,” Weiss says loftily, still slurring her words. “Yang’s _so_ your type. Walking up to the two of you talking or whatever was like - you know when you open a dryer, and it’s just like, hot air? That’s you. It’s hot over here. You want each other.” 

“You sure that’s not just the two of _you_?” Yang asks, but she’s smirking at the mess of a description. 

“No,” Pyrrha finally chimes in. “We’re getting laid, thanks. Tension’s gone.” 

Weiss laughs, tugs her away towards the exit; Blake snickers under her breath. It’s dim and empty; even the bartender’s wrapping up. She says, “Is it nice to have a friend so worried about your sex life?” 

“Jesus,” Yang says. “No. It’s not. My sex life is fine.” 

“Is it?” Blake asks, chin back in her palm. 

“Well, when you put it like that,” Yang says, understanding implications, “it’s lacking. What about yours?” 

“Could be better,” Blake says. “But I think we’ll save that for our next date.” 

\--

Their next date is at a Burger King on a rest stop off of route six. Their buses overlap. It’s three in the morning and there are no motels. Besides, Nora says, I really want a whopper. 

The night’s a little cooler; they’re a little further north. Blake’s wearing sweats and a t-shirt; Yang’s in shorts and a hoodie. Blake smiles when she sees her, gestures her over with a crook of her finger. She spies the blue of Neptune’s hair inside, Sun’s blond gleaming next to him. 

“Hey,” Blake says cutely. “Should’ve known you’d be here.” 

“I’m stalking you,” Yang says.

“Clearly.” 

“We’re in the middle of nowhere,” she says. “Want me to buy you a milkshake?” 

“Sure,” Blake says, charmed. “Chocolate.” 

They open the door and step up to the counter; Blake’s drummer stares knives into her back the entire time. She doesn’t give it weight. She says to the cashier, “A large milkshake. Chocolate. Thanks.” 

The man takes her money boredly, gives her the change and proceeds to make it himself. Yang grabs two straws; she thinks Blake blushes, but the interior’s so drenched in bright colors that she can’t be sure of anything. 

They walk back outside, strolling around the building leisurely until they’re facing the highway, watching the occasional car fly by. They struggle to drink at the same time, giggling when their noses brush, when they meet each other’s eyes too close and cross. 

“I’m gonna write a song about you,” Yang says, because Blake’s somehow just as attractive in her pajamas with a bare face; her lip piercing’s out and her hair is up in a loose ponytail. “Just so you know.”

Blake releases the straw, looks up at her from under her eyelashes, smiling. Yang takes the cup, sets it on a groove in the wall by the window, and leans in, captures her lips. They’re cold and she tastes like the shake, but she laughs into it, her fingers curving around Yang’s jaw. Yang pulls away slightly, letting the moment breathe, but Blake chases her mouth, kisses her again, again, again. Yang’s arms rest loosely around her waist. 

“God,” Blake says, and even her eyes are bright. “Maybe I should’ve just let you do this from the beginning.” 

\--

Blake actually writes a song first, something Yang only finds out when they crash one of her shows two weeks later. It’s a Thursday night; Yang’s band doesn’t take the stage until Friday. Blake stands at the mic with her bass hanging and she looks like heaven, like hell; her pants are leather, and her boots have gold spikes on them. She’s changed her lip ring to a barbell. She’s like a succubus, sucking out the soul of every other demon in the room, or at least whatever’s left. 

She finds them easily in the crowd; it’s impossible to overlook Weiss’s blinding white hair, even when she’s wrapped up in Pyrrha. They’d insisted on coming; Ruby’s behind them, taking pictures with Nora to add to her Instastory. She slips off the stage with the mic during the bridge of a song she doesn’t need to play for, and she rests an arm around Yang’s shoulders over the barricade, sings directly to her with a smirk. Her voice beckons like a tide, magnetic and ungrounding. 

The song, though - the song comes one before the end of the show, when Blake says casually, “So, I met a girl recently, and she told me she was writing me song.” There’s process, and then wild, incoherent screaming. “I didn’t tell her I’d already beat her to it. Hopefully she likes it.” 

Weiss shoves her in the back, smirking, as if Yang had somehow missed the memo. Ruby goes, “ _Oooh,_ ” and Nora records her face when the opening notes play. It’s sultry but strangely upbeat; it’s a feeling and a concept more than it is a simple song - the lyrics are all suggestive and make Yang’s head spin; _oh, it’s not about the long and winding road, it’s all about my bed and the imprint of your soul_ \- Yang wants to dance to it, wants to kiss her to it, wants to soak in it until she drowns. 

The band traipses off-stage. Yang’s already in the wings, smirking. The crowd screams and thunders and storms. Blake’s sweaty and thrumming and her eyes look like flakes of gold under the light. She kisses Yang with a smile, one arm around her neck, the other flung carelessly over her shoulder. 

“ _You_ ,” Yang says. 

“What’d you think?” Blake asks cheekily. 

Yang grins, steps out of her arms, brushes by all of them onto the stage; Blake only watches behind her, entertained despite the stagehands’ sudden spike in nervousness. The lights flicker on, dim; the crowd is momentarily confused, but starts to scream louder, most of them recognizing her. Well, their audiences tend to overlap. 

“In case you were wondering,” Yang says into the mic, “I loved the song,” and somehow the only sound she hears is Blake’s laughter to the left. 

\--

“You’re so gay,” Weiss says to them both, pulling a face from where she’s sitting in Pyrrha’s lap. They’re on the rooftop bar of their hotel, rented out for the night. Sun and Nora are playing some kind of drinking game in the pool, which the staff - and Neptune - are eyeing cautiously. 

“You’re one to talk,” Blake shoots back, breaking away from Yang’s mouth long enough to respond. “Last time I saw the two of you, Pyrrha was pretty much wearing your lipstick.” 

Weiss huffs, rolls her eyes. “I _like_ wearing lipstick,” she says. “Pyrrha doesn’t care. Do you?” 

“Pyrrha doesn’t care about anything,” Yang interrupts, her hands on Blake’s hips. 

“That’s mostly true,” Pyrrha agrees, chin resting on Weiss’s shoulder. “She can wear whatever lipstick she likes.” 

“I don’t know a lot of high femme lesbians in punk,” Blake says, grinning. Her fingers twist and tangle with Yang’s. “I’m liking the crossover.” 

“I’m one of a kind,” Weiss says whimsically, and Pyrrha hides a grin against her skin.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Yang replies, and drags Blake’s mouth back down to hers. 

\--

Blake comes to their show the next night with _her_ band, but Yang’s song isn’t ready and it’s just the normal set. Blake sings along to every word anyway, and the drummer - this girl Ilia who’d been at the original show with Blake - doesn’t seem nearly as chipper as the last time. Like she’s enjoying it against her will. 

Blake spends far, far too much time staring at Yang’s fingers, entranced to the point of disorientation. She’s somewhere else entirely, as if Yang’s singing to her and only her in the presence of a much smaller room. Yang thinks she’s far too alluring, if punk rock were a person and not a concept, a movement, an ideology. 

She finishes her set. Blake wraps her hands around the sides of Yang’s denim jacket, tugs her in and kisses her, doesn’t care about the guitar in the way. “You’re so hot,” she says, “and your _voice,_ ” but the sentence never ends. Yang parts her lips, and Blake’s tongue slips through her mouth, ball of her piercing cool and foreign. Blake pulls away, presses herself closer, throws her head back briefly. “You should take me back to your hotel room,” she says, eyelids hooded. 

“I should,” Yang agrees, finally slipping her guitar strap over her head and handing it off to someone who barely even blinks. 

“So do it,” Blake breathes out. 

“Blake,” Ilia says suddenly from behind them. 

“What,” Blake says, tone steadying itself. She doesn’t even look over, too absorbed, electrified. 

“We’re leaving,” she says shortly. 

“Great,” Blake says, eyes still darting between Yang’s and down to her mouth. “I’m not.” 

\--

Yang peels off her shirt, unbuttons her jeans, strips her own tank top overhead. Blake runs her hands all over Yang’s body and kisses her like it’s her inherited right to. Yang’s toned and muscular and somehow lacking edges, soft and gentle. Blake straddles her and laughs until Yang gives her a reason to stop, digging her teeth into the crook of Blake’s neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses to her chest, fingers dancing on the insides of her thighs until she laughs again. But that’s what sex is, what it should be; they’re just happy to be in bed together, sharing skin. 

\--

“ _I’m so bored,_ ” Blake complains over the phone. “ _I can’t believe we don’t see each other for another week._ ” 

“I know,” Yang says, laying in her bunk. “You just _had_ to go south, didn’t you.” 

“ _It’s not like I planned the tour,_ ” she replies mildly. “ _Don’t you miss me?_ ” 

“More than anything.” 

“ _You’re gay,_ ” Blake says. “ _At least mine’s over after that.”_

“True.” Yang examines her fingernails, reminds herself to trim them before Saturday. “What’re you gonna do when it ends?”

 _“Follow you on yours, obviously._ ” 

Her lips quirk. “Good,” she says. “You can hear my song for you.” 

“ _Good luck topping mine._ ” 

“Oh, I’m gonna top a lot of things.” 

Silence, and then a snort. “ _Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, here,_ ” Blake says, rustling around, and Yang presses the home button on her phone just to see Blake’s picture, her body hidden under white sheets and her smile spreading to her eyes. 

\--

It’s late at night; it always is. They’re musicians, and a good show often keeps them wired until four in the morning. Weiss and Pyrrha are sitting across the couch near the kitchen, sharing a single beer because Weiss couldn’t finish it alone. She has a hand resting on Pyrrha’s knee and she strokes it occasionally, absent-mindedly. 

“Weiss,” Pyrrha says, tucking Weiss’s hair behind her ear.

“Hm?” 

“You know,” she says softly, “that I like you, right?” 

Weiss’s mouth quirks bemusedly. “I’d hope so,” she says, leaning closer to Pyrrha. “Isn’t that the point?” 

Pyrrha raises her eyebrows expectantly. “Is it?” 

“Oh,” Weiss says, understanding; well, there’s a lot of sex, and it’s not her fault Pyrrha’s so willing to acquiesce. “Yes. It is.” 

“Okay,” Pyrrha says, grinning as she relaxes. “Good.” 

“I like you,” Weiss says, turning towards her, finding her mouth automatically. Thankfully she’s not wearing lipstick. “I’m a bitch, but I’m not _that_ much of a bitch.” 

“I don’t think you’re a bitch,” Pyrrha soothes, kissing her again. 

“Yes, you do,” Weiss replies, but she’s smiling, amused. “You just think it’s hot.” 

“Semantics,” Pyrrha waves away, and Weiss reaches for the rest of the beer, leaning back against her chest.

\--

Yang’s up front for _White Fang’s_ last show of the tour. Pyrrha and Weiss had elected to remain in the VIP area up top, sitting at a table with Ruby and Nora, who are undoubtedly attempting to ignore them. They’re like in love now or whatever. 

Blake catches her eye just before the first song and smiles so widely she looks more pop-punk, like Yang, than her own punk rock. She plucks at her bass assuredly and sings and she’s never sounded better; none of them have. It’s the end, always the end when the energy’s the most amplified. She tosses Yang two picks just before heading off-stage, prepping for the encore; Yang hands one to a wide-eyed fan who screams _holy shit this is fucking awesome_ into their friend’s Snapchat, keeps the other.

The band settles back in their places underneath blue pulsing light. The crowd quiets, preparing, and Yang yells out, “Marry me!” loud enough to be heard.

Blake laughs into her microphone; Sun starts strumming the guitar, but throws Yang an approving wink. 

“Yes,” Blake says, grinning at her. “Give me a few years.”

\--

“It’s all over Twitter,” Weiss says, gesturing at her laptop. She’s wearing her glasses instead of contacts, something Pyrrha finds overwhelmingly adorable. “Your dumb fucking proposal.” 

“Oh, it wasn’t serious,” Yang says, staring over at Blake with a smile. “But if they take it that way, it’s not my problem.” 

“I’m hurt,” Blake says sarcastically, her arms around Yang’s neck, legs thrown across her lap. “That wasn’t real? I can’t believe this. And here I already hired caterers.” 

“Oh?” Yang says, raises her eyebrows. “And what are we having, dear?” 

“Well, darling, I’d thought a teriyaki-grilled salmon or lemon-herb roasted chicken for the main course might do nicely,” Blake begins whimsically, putting on an elegance. “A nice salad with like - walnuts and raisins or something, just for class; you and I don’t actually have to eat it - maybe a soup. Oh, fuck it, I don’t know.” 

“I’m thinking Burger King,” Yang says while Pyrrha laughs in the background. “We’ll split a milkshake.” 

Blake grins so widely it pulls at the corners of her eyes, crinkling. She rests a hand against Yang’s shirt, smooths it over her heart. “Keep this up,” Blake says, kissing her playfully, “and I’ll propose right now, only it won’t be a joke.” 

\--

They’re practiced musicians; the new song doesn’t take a ton of time to learn, the same way Blake’s hadn’t. It’s why they’re all able to pull it off. It’s been two months since she first met Blake, and--

Wait, yes, that’s the perfect introduction. Yang grabs the mic, lets her guitar hang. “So, it’s been two months since I met this girl,” she says, and the entire venue knows exactly who she’s talking about. “They’ve been the best two months of my life. She beat me to the song, but I think the wait was worth it.” 

Blake smiles from where she’s watching off of stage left. She’d wanted to be closer than the VIP mezzanine. Yang strums; Nora crashes on the drums and stutters them. Weiss kicks in nostalgic techno beats. It’s more upbeat than Blake’s, more hopeful and optimistic and fun, like it comes with the label _no seduction necessary._ It’s all lines blurring into a story meant for nobody but her to understand; _we’re binging three a.m. like chocolate_ and _put your tongue somewhere I can taste it._ Yang glances over, catches her rocking to the rhythm, like the music’s in her bones. 

The song ends to silence - no, that’s not right; it’s just that she can’t hear anything that isn’t Blake - and she passes off her guitar almost on instinct, beckoned towards Blake’s blooming grin and the way she holds her body as if waiting for something to put her weight on. Maybe Yang’s too slow, maybe Blake’s rare impatience consumes her; she takes long, quick strides over, and Yang catches her intention just before it’s acted upon, her hands settling under Blake’s thighs as she hoists her up, legs wrapped around Yang’s waist. 

Blake laughs - oh, music’s one thing, but this is a sound she’d fight a war for - and kisses her shamelessly, uncaring of who’s watching backstage, if anyone is at all. She says against her mouth, “I love it. Play it at every show.” 

Yang smiles, cheeks pressing against Blake’s palms.“I figured out what I believe in.” 

“What?”

“You.”

\--

Yang keeps her word, plays the song for Blake at every show, regardless of if she’s there or not. By now it’s spread through the atmosphere; plenty of people show up already knowing the the words, casting glances around the pit and trying to peek backstage for signs of the girl they all know it’s about. 

Some music magazine contacts her manager about an interview. She and Blake are _popular,_ she learns; there are blogs dedicated entirely to them, twitters with the two of them as their icons. She agrees to a few questions before her next show; coincidentally, Blake’s there anyway, sitting sideways in her dressing-room chair, leg thrown carelessly over the arm. The journalist’s young, about their age, but easygoing and relaxed. 

Yang answers in between applying eyeliner, mascara, lets Blake chime in occasionally for a laugh. It’s practiced and simple between them, pressureless. The interviewer says at the end of it, “It seems like you’ve really clicked _._ ” 

“Sometimes,” Blake says with a smile, “you meet someone, and you just _know._ ”

\--

She’s playing Blake’s hometown on a Saturday two weeks later, nearing the end of her tour’s final leg. Blake brings her parents and Yang treats them to an expensive bottle of wine during the show; there are impressions, you know. Not everybody approves of pop-punk rockstars. 

But Blake kisses her in front of them afterwards, her priorities made clear. She drags Yang over by the wrist, introduces them casually, her fingers never leaving Yang’s for long. Ghira says, “Blake’s never been so insistent we meet a partner of hers before.” 

“Oh?” Yang says, lip curling. “I’m both flattered and honored.” 

“Shut up,” Blake says, though nobody’s quite certain who it’s aimed at. “The others were all assholes. I’ve learned my lesson.” 

“Yes, I think you have,” Kali says kindly, watching Yang watch Blake with a warmth in her eyes she swears could melt glaciers. 

\--

They spend a little more time asking her about her inspiration, her influence, where she got her start, and then they seem unable to help themselves, reminiscing about their own daughter. Blake keeps her hand on Yang’s knee under the table, rolls her eyes at the stories she’s heard a thousand times. Yang _loves_ it, loves the pictures Kali pulls up on her phone, loves the anecdotes, loves the girl herself. Maybe that’s the wine talking - Blake turns to her, smiles, and oh, no, it’s definitely not. 

They bid goodbye to her parents under the glow of bright billboard lights and flashing signs. Yang’s fingers settle through hers, linking casually. She looks at Blake and finds only a beauty so raw she knows she’ll never succeed in putting it to lyrics, like seeing stars in a city where the sky’s too bright for space. She tugs on Blake’s hand. Blake glances at her quizzically. 

“I love you,” she says, and Blake’s eyes dart between her own. “Too early?” 

Blake leans in, kisses her, and there’s that familiar slant, that smile. “No,” she says, kisses her again, giggle bubbling in her throat. “I loved you from the moment we met.” 

“I loved you the first time I saw you,” Yang breathes out, one hand spreading against her jaw. 

“What is this,” Blake says, pulls a face, “a competition?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, okay.” She pokes her tongue against her piercing thoughtfully. “Then I loved you from - a past life or something.”

“That’s a good one,” Yang says seriously, going along with it. “I loved you in all of them.” 

“We’ll agree, then,” Blake says, her fingers linked around Yang’s neck. People move around them on the street, uncaring and dismissive. They’ll never be as important to anyone else as they are to each other. “All our lives.”

“It’s you and me, baby,” Yang says breezily, and they kiss again until someone wolf-whistles behind them, a chorus of laughter. A group of three men walk by, smirking. 

Blake stares them down and yells, “Fuck you! Fucking _virgins_!” 

They don’t seem to find her funny. Yang laughs hysterically into the crook of her neck and thinks about eternity.

\--

“Last show,” Weiss says, applying a cherry lipstick in the mirror. “I can’t wait to go home.” 

Pyrrha hums her agreement, putting up her hair casually. Weiss reaches back without looking, brushes against her arm. “You’re coming with me,” she says. 

“Oh, am I?” Pyrrha says moderately.

“Yes.” 

“Okay.” 

“You’re whipped,” Blake says from the couch, flipping aimlessly through a magazine. 

“Says _you,_ ” Weiss replies without bite, running a finger underneath her bottom lip. “You’re literally reading an article about _your own girlfriend_ right now.” 

“She looks so hot on the cover,” Blake says, unbothered. 

“Thanks, baby,” Yang says, in the middle of changing her shirt. Blake’s eyes dart up, watch appreciatively, trail over the lines of her tattoo. Whatever; they’ve all seen each other naked at this point. 

“Besides, what kind of girlfriend would I be if I skipped all these _important_ details?” Blake continues, squinting at a page. “She’s a Leo. Her favorite ice cream flavor is Half-Baked. Her favorite color is yellow.” 

Weiss actually grins against her will, amused. “You knew all those things already.”

“Because I’m a good girlfriend,” she states, matter-of-fact. “Do _you_ know Pyrrha’s favorite ice cream flavor?” 

“Cherry Garcia,” Weiss answers without hesitation, and Pyrrha nods affirmatively. 

Yang drops a kiss against Blake’s head. “Wow,” she says. “This room’s just full of serious relationships.”

\--

Yang plays Blake’s song with the encore, this time, because it’s the most important thing she’s ever done and it only feels right to honor it as such. The crowd screams themselves raw, hoarse, and Yang tosses all the guitar picks she’d used that night out into the audience. 

She’s just finished saying _thanks for coming out_ when Blake steps on stage, walks right up to her, kisses her in front of everyone. They love it, probably more than they loved the actual show. It’s long enough to be earnest, short enough to skip the awkwardness. 

“Oh, sorry,” she says into the mic, wrapped in Yang’s arms. “I heard _coming out_ and thought it was my cue. If you didn’t know already, I’m in love with her.”

\--

They’re close enough to home that they drive instead of fly. Blake stays on the bus with them, stretched against Yang in her tiny bunk, running her fingers over the line of her jaw, her clavicle. She’s always smiling when she’s around Yang, like her mouth itself is magnetized. The other four are playing cards up front; Weiss and Nora are at each other’s throats about the score, and Pyrrha’s calming tone echoes low, undoubtedly trying to keep peace and doing it poorly.

“Well,” Blake says out of the blue, “at least we’re good for each other’s careers.” 

“That’s why I’m dating you,” Yang says, following regardless. “The free publicity.” 

Blake hums against her chest in a laugh. “Is that so.”

“Totally.” 

“My intentions were purer,” Blake says. “So I’m probably going to have to dump you now.”

Yang runs her fingers through Blake’s hair, smooths it away from her face. “Tell me about these intentions.”

Blake shifts up, meets her eyes somewhat shyly. “Our single drops Tuesday,” she says. 

“I know. I already pre-ordered it.” 

“I’m writing for our album,” she says. “I’ve been inspired.” 

Yang waits for the conclusion of the sentence, but it doesn’t come naturally. She still has her moments of embarrassment. “Inspired, huh?” 

She presses a kiss to Yang’s mouth as if she can’t resist, just because it’s there. “What if they’re all your songs?” she asks, her smile like spring waiting for the sun. “What if it’s all _you_?” 

Yang finds her lips again, kisses her cheek, her nose, her forehead; Blake’s smile bursts. “You already have my life,” she reasons cutely. “It’s only fair I get your music.” 

\--

Weiss’s apartment is a penthouse downtown with an incredible view of the skyline, lights twinkling below like stars, like gemstones. Pyrrha drops her bags by the door; Weiss tosses her keys on the entryway table. She looks too small for all this room. 

Pyrrha says gently, “I’ll stay with you as long as you want me to.” 

Weiss turns as she flicks on the kitchen light, surprised. She rolls the bar of her industrial. “That could be a long time,” she warns, and she’s actually serious. Pyrrha nods. 

“I’m fine with that,” she says. 

Weiss steps back to her, raises her hands to Pyrrha’s jaw and stands on the tips of her toes, searching for her mouth. Weiss kisses her softly for a moment and sinks down, leaning into her arms and sighing. 

Her eyelids flutter shut. “You’re safe,” she says quietly, “and not in a bad way.” 

“Safe?” 

“Yes.” Weiss nuzzles closer. “Yang made me realize - well. Isn’t this what we all want? Someone you know will never hurt you.” 

Pyrrha smiles tenderly. All the barbed wire has only ever been a prop. She touches Weiss and finds the remnant of something lonely, learning how to live again.

\--

There’s no beating around the bush. It’s Neptune’s birthday and Ilia’s throwing daggers with an intensity that makes Yang think she should check her drink for poison. “What’s her deal?” 

Blake shrugs somewhat uncomfortably. Neptune yells as Sun splashes him in the jacuzzi. “She used to be in love with me,” she says, “when I was with my ex - you know, the shitty one - and I think she’s just...cautious or something.” 

“Hm.” Yang weighs the explanation, but it checks out. “That makes sense.” 

“Yeah,” Blake allows, sipping her daiquiri. “So I’m not really sure what to do about it.” 

“We need another lesbian to distract her,” Yang says. “We already lost Weiss to Pyrrha. I’m running out of single friends.” 

“Speaking of distractions,” Blake starts.

“Oh, here we go.” 

“This _bikini_ ,” she continues, running her hand up Yang’s ribcage. 

“Uh, have you _looked_ in a mirror?” Yang counters. “I didn’t know a one piece could look so…” 

“So…”

“ _Dirty,_ ” Yang says, eyeing the way it dips between her breasts, how it’s low in the back, open on the sides. “Jesus, Christ.” 

“Hey!” Sun suddenly barks. “No foreplay! Get in the pool, losers! This is a _big_ deal for Neptune!” 

“Excuse me!” Weiss snaps, Pyrrha pausing midway through applying sunscreen to her shoulders.

“Not _you,_ ” Sun says, rolling his eyes. “Blake’s about to mount Yang right there at the bar cart.” 

“I have _manners,_ thanks,” Blake responds flatly, setting her cup on the table. “I would’ve _at least_ waited until nobody was looking.” 

Yang laughs, shakes her head, puts her own drink down. She bends over, slides an arm underneath Blake’s thighs and picks her up bridal-style, muscles flexing. 

“Oh, don’t you dare,” Blake warns, arms looping around Yang’s neck automatically. 

Yang smiles widely. “It’s a party,” she says, and jumps in the pool.

\--

“Ilia,” Yang says later in the evening. They’re all toweled off and mostly dry. She’s wearing one of Blake’s hoodies; in retrospect, she could’ve been slightly more tactful. Blake’s walking around in Yang’s loose tank top over her bathing suit and nothing else. 

Ilia eyes her cautiously. “Hey.” 

“Look,” Yang says. “You and Blake - that’s none of my business. But just so _you_ know, I’m not gonna hurt her. Ever. I’d rather die.” 

Ilia’s eyebrows raise at the intensity of the sudden declaration and lower again, processing. There are walls for a reason. She sizes Yang up, but there’s nothing hidden, no mangled doorways, no garden mazes. She sighs. “I know,” she says bluntly. “It’s obvious.” 

“But you still don’t like me.” 

“I like you,” Ilia says. “I just wish - that I could’ve done what you did.” 

Yang asks, “How so?” 

Ilia frowns, lips somewhat tight. “She was sad, you know. Before you. She was...like no one could get to her.”

They both stay quiet. Blake’s voice echoes out from inside among the menagerie of noise, standing out the loudest. It’s light and airy and there’s no sign of a haunting.

“I’m _alive_ for her,” Yang says quietly. “That’s what it feels like, you know?” 

Ilia smiles sadly, but claps her on the shoulder. “Yeah,” she says. “Don’t fuck it up.”

\--

 _White Fang’s_ single hits big, reaches number two on the charts within four days. Yang takes her out to dinner. It’s nothing fancy at all; it’s a hole-in-the-wall seafood place near the ocean. They both wear ripped jeans and boots; Blake’s hair is in a ponytail, and Yang’s falls as messily over her shoulders as it always does. They’re recognized once by a teenager who nearly has a heart attack just saying hello, but it’s cute instead of uncomfortable. 

“I’m proud of you,” Yang says. “Is that cheesy?” 

“Totally,” Blake responds, taking an oyster. “But it’s also nice to hear.” 

“Then I’m proud of you.” 

“Thanks, baby.” 

Yang smiles, looks at her serenely across the table. “God, I love you.” 

Blake actually blushes slightly. She looks adorable under the warmth of the red-tinted light, studiously avoiding Yang’s eyes with her mouth fighting a curl. “I love you,” she says, blushes further. 

Yang actually laughs at that point. “What is this, our first date?” 

Blake glances up at her, grin breaking too wide to hide. “ _No,_ ” she says. “I’m just - it’s weird to be here, you know? I have you, my band’s successful, and I’m happy.” She shies away again. “That’s all.”

Yang reaches out and takes her hand, smile softer. She doesn’t say anything, just lets the moment soak itself in until there’s nothing left but the freedom of feeling it. 

\--

“Eat another oyster,” she says after. “They’re aphrodisiacs.” 

\--

They’re both playing another festival the weekend of Yang’s birthday. _Huntress_ is headlining, only because their single had dropped the week before and it’s big in the charts. _White Fang_ plays right before. It’d been deliberate by the management team, trying to take advantage of their joint celebrity status. 

Yang watches Blake play and it isn’t like the first time; it’s better, because now the girl on stage is _hers._ She owns the music as if drawing it directly from her blood; she was born holding a bass guitar with a soul wired for poetry. She pauses just before the last song and says to the wild crowd, “Okay, everyone knows it’s my girlfriend’s birthday today, right?” Screams to the point of incoherency; Blake shoots her a sly look in the wings. “How about we all sing her ‘Happy Birthday’?”

Yang ambles on stage, waving at the crowd, who are beside themselves at the gesture. They sing it wonderfully, all off-key and at different speeds, Blake’s voice holding her to the earth. At the end Blake pulls her in for a kiss and Yang wouldn’t have it any other way.

\--

They share a hotel room; they have the tendency to kick their boots off in the same place, as if habits can be developed in minutes with the right person, rather than weeks. Blake wanders around in only her underwear and whichever shirt of Yang’s she’s pulled out of her duffel bag, toothbrush in her mouth. Yang’s startlingly content just watching her move around their shared space, and then suddenly she’s _thinking_ about it, Blake being everywhere Yang is all the time, sharing dresser drawers, sleeping in a bed that belongs to both of them.

Blake crawls across the mattress, straddles her with a smile. “Hey,” she says. “You’ve got a look.” 

“I’m having a revelation,” Yang says, palming her hips.

“Which would be?” 

“We should live together,” she says easily, like it’s obvious. 

Blake stills. “Oh,” she says, mildly surprised. “You’re so right. We should.”

“I know.” 

“Okay.” Blake smiles blindingly again, bends down, kisses her. “I can think of _nothing_ better than you.” 

\--

The album process flows effortlessly for both of them. Blake’s slightly ahead; their time in the recording studio comes a few weeks before Yang’s, but in the meantime, they’re also starring in each other’s music videos. Blake’s is a little darker, more sultry; they kiss with the intent of seduction, not like they’re the only two people in the room but like they’re the only two who matter. It’s sexy, their director says, and why shouldn’t it be? Keep that intensity. Maintain it. It’s the truth. The point of the video is that you belong _together_ , and everyone else - well. They’re nothing.

Yang’s video has more of a linear story, just due to the nature of the song; it’s the two of them capturing each other’s attention over and over again until every scene whittles itself down to physics, until the walls are gone and then they’re closer, Blake’s right next to her, the sun is in the room with them, shining. Yang makes her laugh; the world kind of ends. Their videos are both so popular that they actually get offered a webseries to serve as a continuation, which they decline - “You’ve got the face for music,” Blake says, “but I wouldn’t test the cameras,” and Yang laughs, shoves her off the bed.

They get an apartment the neighborhood over from Weiss’s (and Pyrrha’s? whatever) and the building they’re in is upscale, but it lacks pretentiousness, exactly what they’d wanted. “If I have to hear someone call me _Ms. Belladonna_ every day,” Blake had said, “I’m gonna fucking lose it,” and so the doorman says _Blake, Yang_ when he greets them, grinning widely. 

It’s only a one-bedroom, but they have ample amounts of space in the living room and dining room, and their tastes in interior design overlap perfectly to the surprise of no one. They’ve always been complementary and it keeps its roots. They lounge around on their respective instruments, riffing off each other. Half their pictures are prints from fans, moments they’d captured during their various crashings of each other’s shows; Yang always smiles fondly as she passes by each and every one. “I miss it,” she says. “I can’t wait until we get to do it again.”

“All my songs are for you,” Blake says from where she’s sprawled across the couch reading a book, “so just let me know which one’s your favorite, and I’ll be sure to play it last. Give you something look forward to.” 

“I look forward to what comes after all that, actually,” Yang says, sliding the book out of her hands cheekily. “You know, when we get home.” 

Blake smirks. “Well, darling, I can’t fuck you on stage, so take what’s offered.” 

“You can fuck me now.” 

“I can,” Blake agrees, bites her lip. “Actually, yeah. I can. Take your shirt off.”

\--

Their albums drop exactly a month apart, a year and a half after they’d originally met. It’s close enough that they can tour at the same time, but far enough that they aren’t competing. Not _literally,_ Yang’s manager says, it’s just better for business. Both hit number one on the charts; Yang texts Weiss the news and she writes back _thank god, i’m running out of money._

 _asshole,_ Yang types. _and here i thought pyrrha was making you nicer._

 _Hello!_ The tone is suddenly not Weiss; it’s instantaneous. Yang isn’t about to give her an inch.

_shut up pyrrha._

Blake gets the tour schedule first. They’re spearheading something kind of unusual; two shows per city, alternating who opens and closes. They keep their own buses, though the overlap means they’re not really specific to passengers anymore; Blake and Yang bounce between whichever’s the closest after a show, and Ilia and Nora take comfort in being the only two people who aren’t consumed by inter-band romance. 

It’s _fun._ The only thing Yang loves more than playing music every night is watching _Blake_ play music, watching her work a crowd with a sly grin and a few choice bass notes, taking over the stage like she’s the only one who’s ever walked on it. She cheers and applauds with the audience, waits in the wings for Blake to fall laughing into her arms and kiss her at the end of every set. There’s a night they switch band members for a song; Neptune trades with Weiss for the keys, Blake plays the bass instead of Pyrrha, and together, in front of the crowd, she finally feels invincible.

\--

“You know what I like most about this tour?” Blake asks her, stealing french fries from her tray at an Arby’s off of route five. It’s just past midnight. There are only three weeks left. “You.”

“That’s what I like most too, you know,” Yang says. 

“Me?” 

“No, myself.” 

Blake throws a fry at her head, laughing. “Shut up.” 

“Of course, you,” Yang says, grinning softly. “All my songs are about you. We should’ve named our tour _two girls one tour_ or something.” 

“Horrible name,” Blake disagrees, “and not at all accurate. It’s more like _six gays, one tour._ ” 

“ _Three lesbians, two bisexuals, and a gay man…_ ”

“...Walk into a bar,” she finishes, and Yang snickers. “No, our tour name is just fine.” 

_SOMEONE LIKE YOU._

\--

In truth, Yang’s been planning it for awhile now. 

The guitar pick sits heavy in her jacket pocket. She touches her fingers to it, runs a thumb over the engraving. Blake smiles at her as she wires up for the show and all Yang can do is hope it works. There’s two weeks to the tour left. She wants them to be magical. She wants them to be without the uncertainty of a future. She wants all roads to finally lead home. 

She waits for the lights to dim, and grabs Blake’s wrist. “Hey,” she murmurs, passing her the pick. “Use this one tonight, okay?” 

Blake finds her mouth in the darkness. “Okay,” she says breathlessly, and slips out of Yang’s grasp for the beckoning of her music. She plays through three, four, five songs - Yang’s getting nervous, her palms sweating, veins too hot for her skin - she presses her tongue piercing against the roof of her mouth, rolls it around, waits, waits, waits. Finally, there’s a guitar solo and Blake glances down, pauses, freezes entirely, her eyes darting back and forth. Yang thinks her lungs might’ve overloaded. The drums pick back up, and Blake’s supposed to come in but she’s just _standing_ there, staring down, and Sun immediately realizes she’s not following them. The crowd’s humming, looking around, and Sun says, “Uh, Blake?” 

“Sorry,” Blake breathes out at the prompt, shaking her head, free hand wrapping around her microphone. “Sorry. I, um - I need a moment. I think - um, I think my girlfriend just asked me to marry her.” 

There’s silence - the instruments all fall short, their echoes fading - and then a swelling gasp from the audience, clamoring forward for a look. Blake’s turning the pick over and over in her fingers, as if trying to make sense of it all. She continues, “She handed me this guitar pick before the show, and I only - I only just read it. It says _marry me._ ” 

“ _Go,_ dumbass,” Weiss says, shoving her forward. “That’s your cue.” 

Oh. Oh, right. Yang walks slowly onto the stage, right out of a dream, the lights too bright and Blake standing underneath them like something ethereal, expression hopeful and open and saccharine. There’s screaming - there must be - but she barely even hears it anymore. The world softens at the edges, becomes a photograph, becomes a melody, becomes a song. 

She gets right up to Blake, leans into the microphone. It’s hard to know where to begin, even though it’s the only thing she’s been thinking about for months. 

Blake says, “Yang?” in a sweet, quiet voice, and that’s all the prompt Yang needs. 

“You threw me this guitar pick at like, the third show of yours I crashed, or something,” she says, too anxious to be smooth. All that’s left is the truth. “I kept it this entire time, and I had it engraved two months ago. I’ve just been waiting for the right opportunity, the perfect show, and today,” she pauses, swallows over the closing of her throat, “today, I looked at you and I just - it’s _always_ right. _Every_ day with you is perfect. Marry me.” 

“Yes,” Blake says instantly, staring at her wide-eyed. “Oh my God. Yes. I’ll marry you.” 

“I love you,” Yang says, entranced. There are lights flashing, cameras recording. She doesn’t care. She’ll keep this forever, in however many forms she can get it. Blake laughs, tears welling in her eyes. 

“I love you,” she says, and their lips meet to the sound of thunderous applause. 


End file.
